The One With the Kelpie and the Pliers
by Wofl
Summary: As if Dean doesn't hate nature enough, a hunt gone wrong just makes his bad day get worse. Gen. Wee!Chesters. Dean whumpage. hurtcomfort. snark.


Dean hates nature. Hates it, hates it, hates it with emphasis on the spite and the loathing. Fucking trees, fucking fields, fucking evil things lurking in every corner of every natural landmark ever. It all sucked. Out loud.

So hiking through the woods, in the middle of Virginia, to find some moronic river with an even more moronic name – seriously, _Chuckatuck Creek_?! Come _on_ - so they can figure out why the hell hikers and tourists have been disappearing or turning up drowned left and right? Not exactly Dean's idea of fun. Far from it, in fact.

By the time the riverbank appears on the horizon, Dean's covered in mosquito bites and muttering under his breath. He's thinking about turning around and hiking back to the car. There's some gasoline in the trunk that he's sure would take care of this forest problem, easy as pie.

Only problem with that plan is Dad. Widespread forest fires definitely aren't on the agenda today and Dean's already been snapped at to check his attitude once. Dad doesn't tell you things twice. And if he has to, well, Dean would take nature over _that_ any day.

The river doesn't look like much. It's an ordinary, murky, deep, stupid river; complete with steep banks, cat tails and an obscene amount of mud. Fan-fricken-tastic. Dean lets go of Sammy's hand and tells him to stay close, don't wander off. Sam, still young and doe-eyed, nods and falls into step behind his big brother. He's only eleven, too new to hunting to truly be much help – he doesn't know what to look for – so for now, he mostly just tags along for education's sake.

They search the banks for ten minutes or so; long enough that Dad has branched off to search his own section of the river. Dean can see him some distance away, combing through the reeds, and he figures his father is far enough from them that he can grumble, cursing all of nature venomously as he steps in a patch of mud.

But then, Dean spots something weird. It's not much, but it's a floating…something. Whatever it is, it doesn't fit in with the rest of this wilderness crap, and therefore, might be a clue. Of course it would have to be floating in the water. Of _course_. Dean grimaces and turns to Sammy.

"Stay right here. I'll be right back. Don't move." He eyes Sammy as he nods, glares at him for a moment to impress obedience upon him and doesn't relax until Sam reassures him by repeating _don't move, got it_. With that, Dean turns and climbs down the steep embankment, baring his teeth in annoyance when climbing into the murky water proves unavoidable. He sloshes, ankle deep, toward the pain in Dean's ass possible clue and hopes that at least Dad will be merciful and buy him a new pair of shoes after this.

Up close, the mysterious floating object is actually a boot. Just the heel of it, poking up from underneath the water; the rest of it is sunken down into the mud or hidden beneath an obscene amount of water lilies. Dean derives perhaps a bit too much pleasure from the simple act of kicking them – violently – out of the way. To get a better look. You know.

The instant he does, he wishes he hadn't. Wishes he'd just chalked it up to pollution and carelessness and left it at that. Because when he kicks the lily pads away, he discovers that the boot is attached to a foot, attached to a leg, and holy Jesus crap there's an entire dead body down here! Dean's eyes go wide and he scrambles to get out of the water - _dead body infested water oh gross he'll never be clean again_ – and doesn't particularly care anymore, about how filthy he gets while climbing back up the bank.

He opens his mouth to call out to his Dad, makes to grab his brother's hand and pull him away before he can see what Dean's seen. Only problem is, Sammy's gone. Dean swears and looks around, head swiveling almost comically on his shoulders as he searches the riverbank for his pesky brother who never fucking listens, dammit.

Oh, there would be hell to pay for this later. Dean would make sure of it, because not listening to Dean at home is one thing, but on a hunt? He couldn't let that slide. He was gonna make Sammy regret the da—

Anger slides like a fat leech, away from Dean's mind and gut-wrenching fear pounces, making his heart jump, adrenaline racing as he finally spots his brother. Sam is nearby, making his way slowly through the soft grass that grows alongside the river. And Dean isn't quite sure why his brother is walking like that, all slow and careful and sort of hunched down, until he spots what has interested Sam enough to make him disobey and that's all it takes.

Because Sam is cautiously approaching a horse that's laying, legs tucked beneath it, beside a tree near the river. It's a white horse.

And Dean knows, immediately, that it's not really a horse. Fuck. That's a goddamn _kelpie_. What?

"Sam!" he shrieks, and barrels off at a run, desperate to catch his brother before he gets too close. Damn his brother's soft spot for animals. God, Dean's going to be too late, he can see it already.

Just as Sam hears his shout and turns is just about when his fingers reach out with so much care to run through the creature's reedy mane. Suddenly, with a rough jerk of its head, it pushes Sam onto its back and the horse gains its feet, quick as you can blink, and he can't jump down, can't let go. And that's about when he starts screaming for Dean.

Dean's still running when he hears the gunshot. He's almost caught up when the red starts blooming crimson across the kelpie's flanks, a high ethereal shriek rising up from its throat even as it rears and stumbles back from its beeline path towards the depths of the river. His dad is shouting something from behind him, but he doesn't stop to listen because he has one shot to get this right, one chance to save his brother from becoming the next floating body in the lilies.

And then he's there, kicking the kelpie in its long stupid legs, for posterity, even as he closes his hands around Sam's waist and pulls him down off the beast's back and throws him clear. He doesn't want Sam hurt, but hurt is better than dead and Dean can't get the image of that body, bobbing lifeless in the water and Jesus, that could have been Sam.

The next thing he remembers is seeing stars that fade to nothing.

And _fuck_. He's on his back, now, laying in the grass and Dad is plugging the kelpie full of bullets and Dean's not entirely sure it'll do any good. Doesn't really know what kills a kelpie, but then it's shrieking again, a high whinny that ends in a splash and a gurgling as the thing disappears into the river.

He needs to get up, he knows, has to check on Sammy to see if he's alright, make sure he's not hurt from Dean's rough handling. He tries, really does, but when he moves his head, everything swims in front of his eyes and he's coughing, hard, blood burbling over his lips and down his chin.

Someone is shaking him. Dean doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until he hears his father's voice commanding him to open them. Dad, oh, he wants to listen, tries to listen, but it hurts. It feels like his face just went ten rounds with a brick wall. What the hell happened?

With a jolt, he remembers and suddenly, it's easy to open his eyes, pick up his head. "Sammy?!" he implores, almost frantic, and doesn't notice how slurred the word is.

"He's fine Dean," his father tells him, pushing him back down. Dean struggles against his father's hands, doesn't want to believe him until he sees for himself. It's too much effort, though, and he flops back down, wincing.

He mumbles something that's supposed to be "what happened?" but it comes out all wrong. He can't make his tongue work right, his mouth tastes like copper. Blood. Fucking kelpies. If possible, Dean's hatred for nature increases tenfold.

Thankfully, his father understands enough to figure out what he wants to know. His lips are pressed into thin worried lines as he runs his hand soothingly through Dean's hair. "Son of a bitch kicked you in the face," he tells Dean.

Well, that explains it. He brings one shaking hand up to prod gently at the spot where the pain stems from, grimaces at how tender it is. But his head has cleared, some, and he pushes his dad's hand - the one still planted on his chest - away. He sits up slowly, letting his father help him, and spits out a mouthful of blood.

"I saved Sammy, though, right?" he asks, the words only a little big garbled, this time. "That's what matters."

His father's lips twitch, as close to a smile and display of pride as he'll get, and nods. And speaking of Sammy…

Dean turns, eyes casting about until they fall on his little brother, hovering a few feet away, teeth worrying at his lips. He's wringing his hands in that way he does when he knows he's done something unforgivably wrong, and there are tears in his eyes. He's not crying, but Dean can see he's close to it.

"Sammy," Dean mutters, and that's enough of an invitation, and the youngest of the Winchesters is throwing himself in Dean's arms and burying his face in his big brother's shirt.

"'msosorryDean," he whimpers, and Dean can hear just by Sam's voice, how close to tears his brother is. He reaches up and ruffles Sam's hair.

"Look at me," he says, laughing weakly around the pain, "got my ass kicked by a fucking pony."

"It's my fault," Sam says, chin wobbling as he tilts his head up to look at Dean, wincing as he catches sight of his brother's swollen jaw. "If I had listened, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"Wouldn' know what we're dealin' with either," Dean asserts with a snort. Anything to make that look Sammy has on his face go away. Of course, his words just deepens his brother's frown.

"But—" he starts to protest, and Dean waves a hand, cutting him off.

"'m fine, Sam," he insists, taking hold of Sam's shoulders and pushing him back. "Now help me up. Sea Biscuit socked me a good one."

Sam sniffles and nods, climbing up off his knees and offering Dean a hand, which he accepts, if only to allow Sam to feel like he's making amends by being allowed to help Dean. Sometimes, it's the only way to assuage Sam's fragile conscience.

His father makes a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat, having stayed silent through the entire conversation. Dean can see the way the man's brows are furrowed, probably not liking the way All Has Been Forgiven, because there's more to this than Dean getting hurt, but that's for another time. Dean will have that talk with Sam later, can only hope Dad won't take it upon himself to try. Right now, he just wants his father to take them back to the motel so he can pass out proper.

He sways on his feet as the vertigo hits him, and something still must be bleeding, because he spits out another mouthful of blood and feels something solid pass through his lips as well. The fuck?

He thinks about bending down to figure out what it was, but he's afraid his dizziness will get the better of him and undo all the damage control he's just done if he tries. Instead, he closes his eyes, letting the wave pass and then looks up wearily at his father.

"Can we go home now?" he asks, trying not to wince at how much it hurts to talk.

"Yeah," Dad allows, placing one hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him when he wobbles, "I can finish up here later."

That hand stays there for the entire long hike back to the Impala, and though Dean gripes, his father says nothing, lets him get away with it because he can see that it very well may be the only thing keeping Dean conscious and on his feet. The further they go, the heavier Dean finds himself leaning on his Dad for support. His head is getting heavy, and there's a headache that's blossomed huge and insistent behind his eyes and around his temples.

Everything has taken on a sort of fuzzy look, around the edges, and Dean tries to recall everything he knows about concussions and head injuries, but he's having a hard enough time trying to concentrate on walking. "Stupid kelpie," he snarls, when he stumbles over some hidden root. "What the hell is that thing doing in the states anyways?"

"It's Scottish in origin, right?" Sam asks, sounding a little breathless as he trots a few steps behind his brother and father. "There's a lot of Scottish ancestry in Virginia. Maybe they brought it with them."

Dean snorts. "Next you'll be telling me they brought Nessie with them too."

If Sam replies, Dean doesn't hear it. He's distracted by the sight of the car up ahead and walks a little faster in anticipation of not having to move anymore. When they reach it, he crawls into the back seat and flops down, finally, finally letting his eyes fall closed. He's asleep almost immediately.

--

When he wakes, it's not to the dark leather of the Impala's interior. He's laying on top of the grungy comforters of their motel room, his father is shaking his shoulder, rousing him adamantly. "Sit up, Dean. Open your eyes."

Dean obeys, his response automatic, and his father leans in close, studying his pupils. "Well, I don't think you're concussed."

"Yeah, well, still feels like my jaw's friggen broken or something," Dean mumbles, trying on a grin. It fades when Dad's eyes narrow. "What?"

"You're still bleeding. Open your mouth, let me look."

Dean complies, too groggy to protest when Dad shoves his fingers in his mouth, pressing down on his front teeth to hold his jaw open, but whimpers at the discomfort it provokes. His father ignores it, just shines a flashlight in his mouth and Dean tries to focus on the way his father's eyebrows knit into unhappy furrows instead of on the throbbing pain.

A grunt, a sudden movement, and one decidedly gross tasting index finger later, and Dean's whimper escalates into something akin to a scream and he bites down, hard on the cause of the white-hot agony lancing through his mouth.

"Shit, Dean!" his father snarls, pulling his fingers free of Dean's clamped teeth. Damn. He probably left marks. But he can't really bring himself to care when he's too busy scrambling as far backwards on the bed as he can manage, pressing back against the headboard and covering his mouth with both hands, eyeing his father with mistrust.

"That _hurt_," Dean says, words muffled behind his hands, tone wounded. _You hurt me_. Dean's eyes are wide as he stares unblinkingly at his father, with something that is maybe surprised disbelief, but really more like injured trust.

His father's face softens, marginally. "I know, Son," he says, fingers moving cautiously to pat Dean's outstretched calf; the only part Dean's left within reach of his father. "The fucker broke one of your teeth. It'll have to come out."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Dean groans, and Dad snaps at him to watch his language, even as he stands and moves across the room, digging through one of the bags.

When Dean sees what John has in his hands when he stands to return, he can almost feel his heart dislodge from his chest and fall with a splat on the floor. Because this? This is so beyond ridiculous, this is so beyond unfair, God, Dean doesn't even know _what_ this is.

Terror is really the only word he can fathom.

"No, Dad," he says, pressing his hands closer to his mouth. "No. You can't. No. Jus' leave it, 'm fine."

Dean only has eyes for the gleaming metal in his father's hand, and yeah. Terror doesn't even begin to cover it anymore.

"There's no way around it," his father grunts, dropping heavily onto the bed beside Dean. Dean cringes away, hates that he's a coward, but fuck if his father wasn't suggesting that he sit there all hunky dory while he played Frankenstein dentistry. Shit. "Sammy," his father calls out, beckoning to the younger and Dean lets a noise of protest wriggle free.

God, no, Sam doesn't need to see this. Please, this is so not the way to teach Sam his lesson. This is downright cruel.

"I want you to go get me the first aid kit from the bathroom."

Oh. Well, okay. That's better than what he'd been expecting. He lets his eyes slide shut as Sam trots off, and the next thing he knows, his father is shoving some pills into his hand and telling Sammy to go in the bathroom and close the door. Don't come out until Dad says it's okay.

"But Dean," Sammy is protesting, eyes flickering towards his older brother. When Dean tries to make eye contact, Sam's eyes dart away in shame.

"That's an order, Samuel." Breaking out the big guns, now.

Sam bites his lip. Hesitates.

"Go on, Sammy," Dean says, cocking a grin as best as he's able to. He throws back the pills and swallows them dry. They sit like stones in his throat. "It'll be fine. 'm off to happy land for a while."

Even when his resolve shakes, trembling somewhere down in the pit of his stomach, his voice is steady. Sam nods and the bathroom door closes with a click that's way too loud in an otherwise silent room.

Boy, whatever his Dad gave him, it's good stuff. It only takes a few minutes before the pain is a numb, dizzy memory. He can't feel his toes. Man, he never really realized how shiny Dad kept his tools. Lookit those pliers gleam!

Jesus. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind that he should be worried, something bad was about to happen, or had happened, or whatever. He's too busy telling his father that _Christ, your doctor buddy Hooked. You. Up. You could sell this shit, you know. _ And only falls silent when his father purses his lips and shoves one thumb roughly in his mouth, forcing Dean's mouth open wide.

He tries to talk anyway, tell his dad about the stupid kids at school that would eat this stuff up like candy, they wouldn't even have to hustle pool or anything, but it comes out all open vowels and jibber jabber. And then he tastes metal, pressed against his tongue, cold and unwelcome.

He doesn't remember screaming, but he supposes he must have. Even with the drugs, the pain flares up like a Molotov cocktail, hot and bright and explosive. It fades just as quickly, back down to a dull roar, and that's okay, Dean can deal with that. But he _must_ have screamed because Sam is rushing out of the bathroom, all panicked and frantic as he reaches the side of the bed and clutches at Dean's hand.

Dad glares, but Dean fixes him with a pleading look and squeezes Sam's hand back, and Dad lets it slide.

"Dean?" _Are you okay?_ Satisfied that Dad isn't going to gripe at Sam for disobeying again, he lets his gaze fall down onto his little brother, a half smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, looking all lopsided and goofy, because of the swelling.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean mumbles, patting the bed beside him and Sam climbs up beside him, snuggling close. Dean lets his head fall back against the pillows, the drugs pressing heavily down on him. "Tooth fairy better leave me a freaking fortune for this."

"There's no such thing as the tooth fairy, Dean," Sam says, peering up at him.

Dean snorts and admonishes, "course there is. There's one right there."

Sam follows Dean's pointed stare and comes to rest upon his father, who quirks his eyebrows up ludicrously high when Dean holds out one hand, palm turn up expectantly. "So whaddya pay for the ones you rip out of people's skulls?"

Dean suspects he would not be so bold, but for the influence of some pretty sweet painkillers. Nevertheless, he understands quickly that he is approaching the line when John just snorts and shoves some cotton wads in Dean's mouth, poking them down into the gaping hole left behind to stem the bleeding. His father brandishes the pliers at him and Dean quiets, letting that be warning enough.

He slumps down in the bed, tugging the covers up around himself and Sam just burrows in closer, refusing to let go of Dean's hand. Honestly? He's too tired and out of it to care.

When he wakes in the morning, face sore, mouth on fire, Sammy is still asleep, still holding on to him. On the beside table, he finds a few more painkillers and a note from his father, stating that he's _gone to take care of the kelpie, look out for Sammy._

Dean finds a fifty-dollar bill tucked underneath his pillow. 


End file.
